


Conductor of Dreams

by quidprono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dreams, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:58:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidprono/pseuds/quidprono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But if I built you a city, would you let me in?<br/>Would you tear it down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conductor of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> I have no experience in writing fics. I've written short stories just for my amusement, but lately I've been reading some marvelous works on this site by such talented people and it inspired me. <3
> 
> It's definitely a process... but I hope you enjoy taking a stroll down the hallways of Sherlock's mind in dreamstate :)

**_Dreams._ **

Rarely did Sherlock Holmes  _dream_. Typically, dreaming required sleep, which was the basis of the problem. Sherlock hardly had the time or desire to sleep.

But when he did, the usual swirling array of thoughts and experiments and problems and cases and voices inside his busy brain completely dissipated. Sleep was the opposite of his mind palace... sleep was the dark that he feared more than anything as a child. Sleep was painful stillness. Sleep was what it felt to be absolutely alone.

 Unbeknownst to him, soon that would change  _completely_. Sleep would become an addiction, a constant craving, a new drug to him. For he never knew dreams could be so desirable, a piece to an almost impossible puzzle. And Sherlock was all about impossible puzzles.

 

The change would take place exactly on the hour of 3 in the morning, at a little park a short distance from his flat on Baker street. 

 

Not often did he cut through this park. It was too brightly lit, the perfect place to be put on display at nighttime which was the exact opposite of what Sherlock wanted. He liked to remain hidden while exploring the night... what high-functioning sociopath wouldn't? Yet tonight – this morning – was different. He had just solved a case involving a robbery and three murders, all happening within the span of an hour late that evening. It took him 45 minutes to figure out who was the culprit, what the murder weapon was, and where the suspect was hiding. A perfect game of Cluedo – almost. Instead of Mr. Green in the conservatory with a lead pipe, it was an assassin from Russia who had stolen a centuries old dagger from the Museum of London. The idiot then decided to kill three security guards with it on his way out. That part was easy, too easy. What took the most time was finding where he was hiding. Twenty-five minutes later, Sherlock found him several miles away cowering in a dumpster, crying in Russian – some assassin he was. The title was just for show. The  _struggling artist_ , as Sherlock had found out via Google minutes before, had traded the dagger for drugs one alley over... to his dismay, the dealer was still there, likely still high as well as he swung the dagger through the air, pretending he was a pirate. Instead of telling the druggie that he was under arrest, Sherlock texted his location to DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard and promptly left the scene. What a waste of an interesting case. He had more profound things going on at his flat – a date with 38 different types of adhesives and his laptop, for example.

So to cut time short, he decided to go through the park.

Nobody was there, of course, at least not in the vicinity. The air gave him a slight chill and the clouds covered the night sky, making the one-too-many street lamps actually seem a bit more useful than they really were. He held his head high and walked quickly down the path, passing overflowing trash cans and empty benches vandalised with the markings of lovers – ah, sentiment. Something he definitely did not understand. He frowned and brushed the thought out of his mind. And then something caught his eye.

A man, perhaps at least 5 years his senior, sat on a bench several street lamps away. Sherlock quietly cursed to himself – being the only two people out at nearly 3 a.m. would certainly bring about small talk. He decided if the man did say something, he would ignore him. Not like he'd ever see him again. London was big and people often came and went. Three street lamps remaining before happening upon him, Sherlock used the opportunity to deduce him: Tanned skin in the middle of fall... tanning bed? Not likely. He was sitting down because he had taken a break from his run, which is the only explanation for gym shorts in such cold weather. His legs were not tan but his hands and face were. Short haircut, cropped perfectly above the ears... his face a contradiction of hard and soft lines. _One street lamp remained._ The light played off of a piece of silver jewelry around his neck and tucked into his running jacket. Though too far away to be certain of what it was, Sherlock used the necklace to determine his final answer: Army, currently struggling with PTSD or some other disorder that has been weighing on his shoulders quite visibly. Single, actually just had a date earlier that evening but the opposite party left early. He grinned slightly from behind his scarf and squinted. Some people were entirely too easy to read. As he came upon the stranger, he shifted his eyes slightly to the right to get in a quick look and confirm his deductions. Yes, of course. Dog tags and an undeniable scowl, certainly not from running a long distance, and  _certainly_ not from getting what he undeniably wanted earlier that night.

And then something strange happened.

 Sherlock's eyes locked straight on with his. Blue, unlike any blue he'd seen before. A deep navy, similar to the waves of an ocean, crashed and interweaved with a warm, honey brown, so inviting that he almost stopped in his tracks to look deeper and count all the striations, one by one, just as an excuse to  _keep looking._ It felt as if the world had stopped and they were caught in suspension, just the two of them, the detective and the stranger.   
  
He took this moment to look over him, take in and record every dip and every mark on his face. He noted the sandy blond hair, tousled slightly from the wind. His hands were clasped one over the other and sitting idly in his lap – perfectly manicured fingernails, no jewelry. He turned up his nose as a breeze blew by, finding the sweet scent of sweat and men's deodorant. Lowering his head back down, he realized he HAD stopped completely. His body still faced in the direction of his travels, but his head was directed at the man on the bench. Sherlock blinked. Looking back up into the mans ethereal eyes, he noticed the frown soften just a fraction, and he nodded his head. Sherlock nodded back, and turned his head to face forward and continued his trek back home.   
  
After putting a considerable distance between the two, Sherlock exhaled loudly. How long had he not taken a breath? His body felt warm despite the cold. He was calm, yet his mind raced. How could something,  _someone_ , possibly do that to him? Confusion set in, swimming around wildly in his head, an unwelcome friend. He gripped onto the insides of his coat pockets and quickened his pace, brows furrowing as a single bead of sweat dripped slowly from beneath his curly mop of dark hair.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock needed to know who someone was, and needed to go great lengths to figure it out. Little did he know that his dreams would take him exactly where he need to be.


End file.
